


Blood Red

by missmishka



Category: Punisher
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, snuff fantasy, unrequited psychotic love, what's your favorite color?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmishka/pseuds/missmishka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bullseye pleasures himself to the memory of having seen The Punisher in action and he's certain that red is Frank's favorite color.  An expansion of scenes in PunisherMAX (2011), Issue #9 - Bullseye Part 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Red

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: The usual warnings, I claim no ownership of these characters, they are simply borrowed with love and adoration from the original creators to have their stories, thoughts or circumstances embellished on a little more than the original format had done. Not for any profit.
> 
> WARNINGS/Notes: One would assume that you've gotten this far because you know The Punisher comics and/or things related to the characters of Bullseye or Frank "The Punisher" Castle. You know what they say happens when you "assume" though so to warn; ahead you will find a twisted little fantasy from the mind of one of Marvel's best villains. It contains profanity, one-sided male/male sexual lust, references to violence and fantasies of character death. Hopefully, I have been true to the wonderful mix of darkness, insanity, violence and macabre that is Bullseye whenever they pit him against Frank. No beta & its my first time delving into this 'verse, but Bullseye is kinda of consuming my brain right now, so I must write him and I simply adore him in the PunisherMAX 2011 series. If you read nothing else of this series, read the Bullseye arc. It is pure psychotic love on Bullseye's part. Frank? Not so much. Kind of pretty much of no way, Jose and not at frickin' all interested. Which just makes it all the more addicting to follow them in the comics.

Despite the clichéd ‘death in black’ wardrobe, Bullseye felt strongly about his accuracy in gauging red to be the Punisher’s favorite color.  The man hadn’t so much as ticked a muscle on his aged and beaten face at the question, but it was certainly red.

_How could that glorious spray of crimson not be Frank’s favorite thing as well?_

Fresh blood, wet and bright soaking in to stain is a paint more artists should stain their canvases with.  Dried blood; browned with age but still hinting at the vibrant red gush of life’s blood being spilled was a beauty all of its own.

Deny it however he felt he must, but Bullseye knew red was Frank’s favorite color, too.

The man wore it so well.

Bullseye kept his breathing calm and his careless smile firmly in place as the Punisher stuck the C4 to the bulletproof barrier between them.  He allowed himself an additional moment to look; to _research,_ his target.  His eyes moved slowly from the neatly trimmed black hair on the other man’s head down to the tightly laced, neatly polished black combat boots on his feet.

_You could take the man out of the military, but never the military from the man._

Bullseye had smelled those faint traces of boot polish in the safe house along with gun oil beneath the lovely stench of blood, sweat and death.  He had sat on the edge of that lousy bare mattress on the floor and imagined good ol’ Frank diligently dissembling his weapons for a ritualistic nightly cleaning to reassemble them to perform at their best for the next massacre.  Polishing the worn boots had likely been a relaxant; wiping away blood, gore and excrement from the pursuits of the day on the battlefield and getting them spit-shine bright for more shit kicking to come.

_No one could make a meticulous murderer quite like Uncle Sam._

Frank Castle was the best example of that.  Bullseye had honed his skills with the help of the armed services, but he was only a shadow of this thing that had come out of Nam to become the Punisher.

Having just seen the man kill a room full of the Kingpin’s hired muscle, the assassin was enthralled.

He should be paying Fisk for this pleasure; to be the one to match savagery with Frank “THE Punisher” Castle.

The awe was a first. 

There had been previous hits that he had admired for their skill, respected for their sick and twisted acts, but Frankie was in a league all his own.

_This must be love_ , he realized as his insides fluttered in delighted anticipation as Frank turned away.

His cock made its presence known by pushing hard into the unforgiving line of his zipper as the other man so casually pulled the remote from his jacket and prepared to push the button to blow this shelter to kingdom come.

_They were kindred.  Two peas in a pod.  Soulmates.  Yin and Yang._

_This was meant to be_ , he put his fingertips to the Plexiglas barrier between them and tapped a fond farewell to that broad back as it hunched forward in preparation for the explosion the man was about to set off.

He moved quickly to escape the chamber just before the blast sounded and flames engulfed the space he had occupied.

_So this is foreplay_ , he thought, forcing himself to haul ass back to the Kingpin’s stronghold to begin processing all he had gleaned about his prey.

….

He entered Fisk’s primary apartment in the building as if he owned it.  He ignored the man’s blubbering about Bullseye’s presence his having spoken to the soon-to-be ex-wife for the Kingpin.

“I saw him in action,” he shared with the assembled thugs that guarded Fisk, feeling like something within him would burst if he kept the wonder of what he had witnessed inside himself.  In his mind, he replayed it again.  His ears still rang with the symphony of every gunshot blast, bloodcurdling scream of agony and sickening crunch of bones breaking as the Punisher killed every last one of Fisk’s men.  “Let me tell you,” he continued softly, images of the carnage flipping through his thoughts, “it was…it was something to behold.”

He drew in a breath and imagined he could still smell the metallic of spilled blood, the burn of cordite from all the bullets fired mixed with that elusive stench of an unwashed Frank.  The idea of the man wallowing in blood and sweat for hours, possibly days, was almost enough to make the assassin come in his jeans.

“I do apologize,” he blinks away the images and shook his head to clear out the sound effects,” but it appears I’m going to need to pleasure myself now.  You may want to leave the room.”

He stuck around long enough to pacify Fisk and get himself a nice, windowless room in the Kingpin’s tower then was finally able to bask in the memories.

The room was barren with cracked cement walls and unforgiving concrete floor, but none of that mattered.  He could do this anywhere and not have his surroundings diminish his pleasure.

 Alone in the space with the door locked firmly on his side; he knelt to carefully unlace then remove his shoes. 

Normally he would have just toed them off for expediency, but that was a Bullseye action; Castle would never abuse his footwear in such a careless fashion.  The soldier; the fucking _Marine_ in the man would always treat boots and shoes with respect, removing them with care to insure the laces wouldn’t snap and the insoles wouldn’t ruin because a working man needed his feet in working order at all times and that all began with a good pair of shoes.

So he untied each shoe, loosened the laces then slid the sneaker off and set it aside.  He removed his sock while he was down there, tucking them into his shoes before standing.  He tugged the beanie from his head and dropped it on the pile before shrugging out of his jacket.  Without a table or chair to drape his clothing on, he allowed the covering to fall to the floor without any of the care his shoes had received.

He wore two t-shirts under the lightweight jacket and removed them both with familiar ease.  He took a moment to separate the layers, discarding the plain black crew neck along with his jacket, but holding on to the graphic tee.  It had turned inside out during the removal, so he righted it with careful hands, warmed inside and smiling when he sees the Punisher’s skull glaring back at him from the black cotton canvas. 

Castle seldom left anything behind, but Bullseye had found this shirt behind a dumpster at one of Frank’s many kill sites.  Despite the fact that Bullseye had been wearing the shirt daily since finding it, he swore he could still smell his quarry on the fabric.  He drew it to his face and inhaled to test the theory; easily dismissing his own familiar scent to find that lingering trace of foreign stink that could only be the previous wearer.

_Frank_ , he thought as he knelt again to spread the shirt on the floor, the vacant eye sockets of the skull promising eternal damnation for what Bullseye was planning.

If he were to put his mouth to any one of the multiple bloodstains, he knew he would be able to taste the other man.

The thought of ingesting The Punisher sent a rush of heated sensation over his nerve endings.  Blood; sweat; semen; skin; tears….to take _any_ thing of Frank into himself would be intoxicating. 

_Blissful._

_How better to become or understand him than to consume him?_

The thought had him so hard it was a struggle to lower the fucking zipper on his jeans to shed the last of his clothing.

Freed from all material, his flesh sprang up and outward for the complete relief of masturbation.

He fell to his knees at the hem of the tee shirt and stared down into the white screen-print as his fingers drew the pre-cum from his slit to stroke along the shaft of his dick before he gripped it tightly in his fist.  He imagined Frank to be glaring back at him from those hollow eyes and nearly fucking whimpered.

To be kneeling over that man’s body; whether it be alive or dead and jacking off was a mental picture Bullseye would have to see become reality.

Alive would be preferred; the idea of the man’s contempt at the position managed to wring that whimper from him.  Thoughts of how Frank would fight and struggle to get out from under him pushed more liquid out to slick his fingers as he fucked his hand harshly.

His mind went back to the bloodshed.  To watching The Punisher _punish._

He had seen many killings in his life aside from those he performed himself. 

He had once seen a ninja literally cut through a crowd with a katana.  There had been such an artistry to that; a grace and beauty to the massacre the likes of which he’d never seen with a gun.  It had all seemed to flow seamlessly together; a natural order as the killer’s body had bent and flexed to wield the weapon as the steel blade cleaved through flesh to shower blood over the surroundings. 

Bullseye still played with swords because of that guy, but he himself had never attained that level of skill to perform that wondrous blood dance.

Many killings he had seen were dubbed as ‘savage’ by the media.  Gruesome; also.  These were the categories his own typically fell into as they incorporated amounts of anger, violence, skill and enjoyment that drew many to bloodshed.

Executions bored him; he had performed and witnessed his share of the cold blooded and methodical act and it did nothing for him.

Frank’s style, though, was brutal. 

_A total fucking brute_ , he thought and the thought caused his dick to jump in excitement and his balls flexed to indicate he would be coming soon.

There was no precision to Frank’s shooting in a turkey shoot; he didn’t aim for head or heart or try calculating any odds or angles.  He just pointed his guns at anything not himself and pulled the fucking trigger to let the bullets decide wherever they’d go and however they’d kill. 

If the gun wasn’t an option because the enemy got too close, he used his entire body as a weapon.  Head bashing like a mace, elbows, fists, knees and feet like fucking clubs to render his opponent senseless.  He seldom bit or tore at flesh as a savage would and he made no moves to avoid the violence of breaking bones and torn skin as a ninja or executioner might.  He just beat the fuck outta a person like a caveman would have taken a rock to prey back in the beginnings of man. 

Bullseye couldn’t wait to feel those blows. 

The base of his spine tingled as he bowed forward, working his dick harder and faster as his torso flexed at the idea of those scarred and age gnarled fists plowing into his sides to break his ribs.

He could see the unapologetic, unconcerned blankness of those icy blue eyes staring back at him as the blows filled his lungs with blood that he would gleefully spit in Frank’s chiseled face.

Bullseye would smile through the pain, through the blood and beating and he knew The Punisher would do his damnedest to wipe that grin away. 

_The man took killing far too seriously._

The violent fantasy in his head quickly morphed into a slightly different setting. 

It was still blood and beating and Frank versus him, but clothes were gone hardened cocks were just another weapon to be used between them. 

He gasped and leant forward at the new thoughts; free hand braced on the cold floor while his glazed eyes stared down at the skull print and imagined it stretched across that broad chest.  He all too easily imagined forcing himself down on the other man’s dick, fucking himself raw while the man drove up into his tight ass.  Abrupt and rough, he imagined the Punisher would be, fucking quick and bluntly to get the stress off him in the damnedable event of his body actually wanting sex to go with the battering it so normally gave and received.

He clawed at the floor until his fingertips found the cotton of the tee and his hips began to piston into his fist as he clutched the shirt with his other hand.  Whines had begun to sound from his mouth before he bit into his lower lip to stifle the racket.  It didn’t have the desired effect as the taste of his own blood, warm on his teeth and tongue only made him louder as he bit right through the flesh and relished the pain.

He fell forward and buried his face in the shirt, mouth opened to seek the bloodstained fabric on the shoulder.  He bit into it, imagined himself to be biting into the flesh of the real man. 

In his mind the blood was fresh and spraying over his naked body like a shower; he could feel it.  Taste it.  Smell it.  He could hear the gurgling of blood in Frank’s throat as the man choked on it; drowned in it from the blade Bullseye used to sever his target’s jugular. 

He came at the idea of besting the Punisher; watching the man die a slow and bloody death at his hands.

He directed his cock over the shirt, making sure the ejaculate spurted out to give the skull a nice, gooey facial.  He imagined Frank’s eyes going vacant in death as he coated the cheeks and eye sockets of the drawing.

When he had wrung himself dry, he tumbled forward to lie on his side next to the tee, fingers idly stroking through the come to spread it over the material while in his mind he rubbed his semen into Frank’s chest. 

Bullseye had never been one to linger over a kill; never been a lover to stay and cuddle, but he knew he would savor Frank’s death. 

He’d wallow in it. 

Draw it out as long as possible. 

Drape himself with the man’s corpse and cover himself in all that blood so that they would both be drenched in that crimson.

_Oh, yes, Frank.  Red is your favorite color.  You can tell me these things.  I’ll never let anyone use it against you._

_Other than me._


End file.
